by David Gilman
De Grailly stood and signalled to the guards, who eased Christiana down from the parapet. He strode towards Blackstone. ‘It is done, Thomas. Dear Christ, I thought he had you a dozen times.’
‘He did. But there was not enough hatred behind his sword. I would have dragged him down to hell with me had he cut me.’
De Grailly and the Count of Foix looked at the battered man who stood before them.
‘Let us hope there are no other brothers in the von Lienhard family,’ said the Count.
De Grailly smiled. ‘It’s been a long, day. Thank God it has ended as it has.’ He placed a hand on Blackstone’s shoulder and then turned away to join the other knights, who followed him into the castle.
Killbere and the others gathered around Blackstone. Caprini undid the straps of his helm and Blackstone gratefully pulled back his leather coif and with his fingers combed the sweat from his hair. Caprini gazed down at the battered corpse that would be stripped and hauled away to be hung by the ankles until it rotted.
‘You should have taken my knife, Sir Thomas,’ he said quietly, without emotion, and then smiled. ‘Better to kill with less effort.’ He turned away to allow Blackstone’s men to offer their congratulations.
Brother Bertrand watched the Tau knight walk away, then picked up the German’s torn shield. Why had Caprini offered him his knife? What was it he whispered? he wondered. A man with a background like Caprini’s, who now employed violence in the service of God, had deadly skills of his own. Bertrand decided that he should watch Fra Stefano Caprini more carefully.
The battered shield’s image glared back at him, the chilling gaze of the harpy, despite now being scarred, seemed as defiant as Blackstone. He looked up as Blackstone stepped towards him. All the skill and brutality in the world was of no use if you hesitated against him. One mistake had cost von Lienhard his life.
‘You served God’s will, my lord,’ said Bertrand.
‘I fought for more than that,’ Blackstone told him, taking the damaged shield from Brother Bertrand’s hands. The wild-eyed harpy had borne down on him twice in his life, and each time the man who carried that shield had nearly taken his life. He had now killed two brothers. One who fought for glory and the other who murdered for gain. Good riddance to both those gods of war. He tossed the shield into the flames. The chimera twisted in the heat, talons curled, teeth bared in a silent scream.
Let that be that, he thought. He had been spared, as had Christiana and his children. And for that he was thankful. He made the sign of the cross.
And then brought the silver goddess to his lips.
48
Christiana bathed his wounded leg as he lay with a linen towel modestly wrapped around his waist to shield his nakedness from Agnes, who sat on a stool next to him, not daring to look at the cut. She cupped her hands around her face, staring at him, shielding her vision.
‘Does it hurt, Father?’
‘No, it’s only a small cut.’
Henry stood at the foot of the mattress, watching his mother tease out the discoloured skin around the wound. The Captal de Buch had given over his own quarters – less an act of generosity than many supposed. He and the other knights would soon ride out to kill peasants who still roamed the countryside or who thought to escape the noblemen’s revenge by returning to their villages.
‘Henry,’ said Blackstone. ‘Have you cleaned my sword?’
‘I have, Father. And have seen to it that your braies and hose are washed. Your shirt is almost dry. John Jacob had the monk squeeze them out and peg them near the fire.’
‘His name is Bertrand. And he’s no monk.’
‘But he wears the habit,’ said Henry.
‘Have you seen his tonsure? Unshaven for weeks. He wears the habit because we would not give him any clothes until he proves himself. He’s a servant, nothing more.’
Blackstone grunted as Christiana’s probing went too deep. She raised her eyes in apology. He shook his head. It was all right. Fra Caprini had conjured up a balm and bark dressing, and if he was cautious for a few days then the wound would bind.
‘Go and speak to Sir Gilbert. You know how to behave with a knight such as he?’
‘I do, Father.’
‘Good. Tell him I shall join him soon.’
The boy did as he was told, and Blackstone could not help but notice how strong and confident he looked. He was lankier, but already there were contours on his shoulders and arms, muscle forming that would grow with him. He would keep his son with him now. He could serve John Jacob and learn to be a squire and fight.
‘Have you seen the royal family?’ said Agnes.
‘I have seen the King of England,’ Blackstone replied.
‘I meant the royal family who are with us in this castle,’ she said, taking down her hands from her face, but still averting her gaze from her mother’s ministrations.
‘I have not,’ said Blackstone.
‘No one has seen them. They have quarters that no one is allowed to go into, except the man with the grey beard who shouts at everyone.’
‘That is Lord de Hangest, and he is here to protect them.’
The child thought for a moment, and he watched as her eyes gazed into his own. She seemed momentarily uncertain. ‘I did not think that we would ever see you again. I thought that you had forgotten us.’
Blackstone reached out and touched her face. ‘I have never forgotten you, and I have always prayed for your safety. And I promised you, that day in the mountains, that I would come back.’
‘You were not there to protect us, though. Henry did. He was very brave.’
‘Do not say such things to your father, Agnes,’ said Christiana.
Blackstone raised a hand to stop her berating the child further. ‘I had to travel a long way, Agnes. Over mountains, through the snow, so that I might be brought by God’s hand to your side again. I know you were frightened, but your mother and your brother were there to protect you, and they have both told me how brave you were. I will be with you from now on. Our family is together again.’
She nodded, the explanation accepted.
Christiana knew that sooner or later the child would start talking about the infant that had been left in the care of the nuns. ‘Agnes, take this, throw away the water and bring fresh,’ she said.
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Agnes, taking the bowl of discoloured water, and carefully made her way out of the room, slopping its contents as she went.
‘There won’t be much left in the bowl by the time she gets there,’ said Blackstone, allowing the deep sense of contentment to comfort him. When the dirt and sweat had been sluiced from his skin and hair, the bathing felt like a baptism for a new beginning.
Christiana finished binding the wound. ‘It’s clean and if you don’t ride for a day or so—’
He shook his head. ‘We’re leaving.’
Her uncertainty showed. ‘To where?’
‘I have men in Italy who will fulfil my contract, but now that I’m pardoned by the King we’ll go to England. I’ll find us a fine home, in a small town or village, and I shall be the Prince’s man. There’ll be no threat against you ever again. Before then I have to finish what I was sent here to do.’
He could see that his words rankled her. She had made her own decisions these past years and was now obliged to do as Blackstone instructed. England had never been her home and her discomfort with many Englishmen had never left her, bred into her as it was with a distrust and at times a loathing for their warmongering. England. The very word frightened her. An island fortress more forbidding than this stronghold. It was not that she resented his decision. Her happiness at being with him again was deeply felt; what rose within her was her independent spirit that disputed his right to decide where and how they would live. Relent, she told herself. God has saved us all by sending her lord and husband to them. There could be no denying such heavenly power. She crossed herself.
She was a mystery, this woman, thought Blackstone. Her
passion for him was as wild as his for her, but her piety was a bridle and bit trying to hold her in check.
‘Then we will be ready,’ she said.
‘You haven’t asked what it is I was sent to do.’
‘I thought you would tell me when you were ready, Thomas,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘God’s tears, Christiana, you’re not the kind of woman to timidly accept what I say. You never have been.’
‘Perhaps I have changed,’ she said unconvincingly, winding the cut linen into another bandage. He watched her for a few moments, until her own look of defiance eased. ‘I am sorry, Thomas. I will happily go with you.’ She knelt next to him and placed her hand across his chest. There were more scars than ever – a map of white tracks and discoloured blemishes – stretched by his muscles as taut as an oiled canvas scratched with a quill. She pressed her lips to his, her hand resting on his cheek. ‘I am in love with you as I was once before, but I am frightened now because there is another child that you have never seen, and may never wish to see. Still he is mine and I must care for him. If you tell me to abandon him and leave him in the care of nuns then I will, but that will not soothe my guilt, nor stop me thinking of him.’ She stood up and smoothed her dress, willing her shaking hands to be doing something.
‘You have not yet told Henry. And Agnes soon will,’ said Blackstone.
‘What must I do? Swear Agnes to secrecy or tell my son? Am I to abandon the baby?’
Blackstone got to his feet; the binding on the wound was good. He put weight on it; there was little to worry about, but his actions were buying him time. He did not wish to be reminded every day of their lives of her rape. Nor the emotions it stirred. That she had been submissive that night to save her daughter’s life was something he understood but that had never been enough to wash the image from his mind. This was the moment when his life would change.
‘I will tell Henry about the child,’ he said, and bent his head to the woman who had always meant more than he could find the words to express. ‘And I will tell him that the child is mine.’
Christiana fought the tears. This was no time for weakness. She had fought and killed for her children; she had not backed down from her accusation against von Lienhard and because of it Blackstone had saved their lives and brought them together as a family again. He had come close to death and now pushed aside his own uncertainty. He could make no greater gesture of his love for her.
She nodded, and gathered the balm and mixture.
His own misgivings melted away when she smiled and her green eyes sparkled with hope.
They would soon be home.
*
Fra Stefano Caprini watched as Blackstone made his way from the room given him by the Captal de Buch. His eyes followed the man’s long stride as he made his way down towards the outer ward. His leg seemed not to trouble him, and the sword that had brought the German’s wrath and thirst for revenge slapped against his thigh in its scabbard. No one would separate him from Wolf Sword until he lay cold and dead. The sword, though, would not be the prize. Those who sought to claim Blackstone’s death would seek the favour of the Englishman’s enemies. And after defeating von Lienhard Blackstone’s reputation would grow even more, but there would always be someone who wished to claim the glory of killing him. What though, he wondered as the figure walked along the gallery, would Blackstone do next? Would he ride back to Italy or perhaps ally himself with de Hangest and accompany the royal family to another place of safety, one that had not fallen to the Jacques? He studied the confident, striding man. It made little difference: Caprini’s work was almost done.
Beyond the Marché, the city of Meaux still burned and would do for weeks to come. Deep-seated cores of fire, glowing timbers that refused to die, continued to flare up as the tumbled buildings’ wattle and dried straw walls fed them. Acrid smoke lingered and the stench of burning flesh was becoming unbearable when the breeze shifted. John Jacob and the captains had organized their men to clear the bridge of the fallen Jacques, tossing the shattered bodies into the river. Once that was done they followed Blackstone’s orders to do the same with one of the narrow streets so that the Captal de Buch could ride unhindered through the city.
Werner von Lienhard’s body was stripped naked, his fine armour taken apart by the men, once Blackstone had refused it as a prize. He had no desire to encage himself in armour worn by a man whose spirit might still cling to it. Each of his captains took pieces as booty, then a rope was dropped from the walls and the German’s corpse was hoisted by his ankles like a slaughtered pig. Blood drained from his body through his shattered face, which congealed into a purple mask. Those who had witnessed the fight would tell their own tales of it and when de Grailly sent a messenger south to Gascony to declare that the Jacquerie were routed, word of the Visconti’s champion’s fate would soon filter across mountain passes and eventually reach the Vipers of Milan. Von Lienhard’s death carried little meaning in the scheme of things and would soon be forgotten – news of the failure of the great uprising would take precedence. And that too would be pushed from memory as the struggle for Paris gave warning that the fight for France went on. Those thousands who had died were little more than stepping stones across France’s turbulent waters.
Blackstone’s men had earned their rest. They were given looted ale from one of the cellars and after their labours in clearing the bridge and streets were allowed a brief respite before Blackstone gave them further orders. The danger was mostly gone and the bowmen knew they had got off lightly in the killing. For once they had not been threatened by an overwhelming force who could reach them. They bantered back and forth about who had done the hard work of killing the Jacques. The humid day made it too hot to argue and the ale, a few days away from being spoilt, needed to be drunk. Blackstone’s men lounged, as do all soldiers in all armies, grateful to go almost unnoticed as they watched the activity that went on in the yard.
Horses whinnied and jostled as their riders cursed and brought them under control. De Grailly and his cousin had gathered the knights and regaled themselves and their horses in their colours. Surcoats of red and green; blue slashes against a red diamond; sheaves of yellow, black, silver and white that sported bird’s wing; spear point and cross bars of gold. The big, muscled destriers looked even more formidable with caparisons bearing their lord’s blazon blanketing their great bodies. The Captal and his knights were dressed as the mighty armies of France and England had always done when going to war, a spectacle to impress and terrify their enemy, a great swaggering of pride that reminded the common man of his place in the world.
‘Like a bloody fairground,’ muttered Will Longdon as he and the other archers leaned against the walls, keeping out of the horsemen’s way.
‘You think there’s any need to get dressed up like a mummer to slay a few peasants?’ asked Jack Halfpenny.
Gaillard sharpened his knife against the stonework, watching the lords and knights prepare for their departure. He snorted and spat. ‘Better to have a glorious death at the hands of a great knight in all his regalia than be taken by the sweating sickness,’ he said.
‘He’s right,’ said Thurgood. ‘I’d rather take my chances with one of this lot than something I can’t see creeping up on me.’
Will Longdon looked from one to the other. Holy Mother of God. Gaillard’s eyes twinkled. The bloody Norman was jesting.
‘You arse, Thurgood!’ said Longdon, playing along with Gaillard. ‘Everyone knows you can see the sweats coming for you.’
‘You can?’ said the archer, his brow furrowing.
‘When was the last time you pissed?’ said Gaillard, realizing Longdon had caught on.
‘Pissed?’
‘Aye. When did you undo your jacket, pull down your hose, take out that poor excuse of a dick of yours and piss?’
‘First light,’ said Thurgood, now looking more worried.
‘And?’ said Longdon. ‘It was all right, was it?’
‘My dick?’
‘Your piss!’ urged Meulon, who had now caught the gist of the tease.
Thurgood’s words stumbled as his brain tried to remember. ‘I... I don’t know... it was dark.’
‘Your piss?’ said Gaillard looking concerned.
‘No! I meant it was still too dark to see.’
‘Oh,’ said Meulon with a tinge of regret, and a look between Gaillard and Longdon. ‘That’s never good. First light is when the sweating sickness first shows itself.’
‘It is?’ said Thurgood.
‘Always with the first piss of the day,’ added Longdon, looking equally concerned and giving a sad shake of his head.
‘Bugger,’ said Thurgood. ‘I never knew that.’
‘Sometimes you can see it when you piss again. Not always. Sometimes though,’ said Meulon.
‘Aye,’ agreed Longdon. ‘Sometimes.’
‘And it itches. Your groin, it itches, does it?’ said Gaillard seriously.
‘No more than usual,’ answered Thurgood uncertainly. Who among them didn’t have crotch rot?
Longdon shrugged and the men fell silent. They went back to watching the great knights yank their horses’ reins as squires ran from one to the other, adjusting straps and tugging horses’ caparisons.
Thurgood looked worried, scratched his groin and edged away. ‘I’ll take another piss,’ he said.
The others ignored him, except Longdon who barely gave him a glance. ‘Good idea,’ he said disinterestedly.
Thurgood nodded and walked on, then stopped halfway across the yard and turned. ‘What am I looking for?’ he called back.
‘A fool with his cock in his hand!’ shouted Longdon and joined the others as they guffawed.
Their laughter faltered when Blackstone and Killbere strode towards them.
‘Here we go,’ said Longdon, and then called to an embarrassed Thurgood. ‘Get your arse back here!’
Blackstone stopped in front of de Grailly to speak to the young lord, gripping the horse’s bridle to steady it.